Abdul stepped off the curb and smack into the middle of the deep blue China Sea.
“Funny place to put a deep blue China Sea,” he quipped to nobody and dogpaddled back to the shore. He
staggered back onto the curb, got rid of the dogs before the ASPCA got it’s hooks into him for using them as a
paddles, and sidled back into Little George’s Gunshop and DayCare (Two for one Tuesdays).
At the bar he ordered a gin and milk, and tried to figure out who was trying to kill him. If they were willing to pay
to have a sea moved all the way from China, they might even have enough left over to pay for a bullet or two.
Bullets, the bartender, slid over and rested a forearm on the bar. Abdul asked him to move it, so Bullets, the
bartender, put the forearm back in the freezer until the dinner rush.
“So, what’s eating you pal?” the barkeep asked.
“These little bugs, got them from swimming in deep blue China seas, but then that ain’t what’s bothering me.”
Just then bullets, the small metal flying projectiles, tore through the front window fragments and smashed into the
bar. Both men looked at their wrists. Bullets, the bartender, looked at his because he had a watch on, and Abdul,
the non-bartender, because he had a itch there.
“The 9:14 from the Westside Bowlers League,” the bartender said out of the side of his mouth, the front being
closed for repairs.
Abdul knew something was wrong in an instant. Well in reality, it was more like three instants and a suddenly.
Dinsmore!
Abdul sprang from the bar, the spring his stool had shifted and he just poked him in the tender look outties.
Bullets, the small metal thingees that made mucho big hurt, followed him out like a bar bill, and vice versa.
He skirted the deep China Sea and headed up the sunny side of the street, the unsunny side of the street looking
especially unsunny in the dark of the night. The suddenly, again, there she was, in front of him. She stood defiant
and looking for all the world like a great big cone of ice cream: cool, to the point, something you just knew you
would lick down to nothing if you put your tongue into it. Dayve.
“So, we meet yet again,” she sighed.
“Yett is here? The fool owes me five bucks.” Abdul looked about frantically.
She sauntered over to a waiting Hyundai limo, ushering him into the back door without even giving him a pat
down. His ticket was balcony, but she let him sit in the middle seats with her.
“We might be working the same case, Sharpie” she cooed into his ear.
“Dinsmore!” he shouted.
Philbuso Kensington Maureen Chen Che Dinsmore. Billionaire. A true visionary who years ago had cornered the
market on toothpicks, suntan lotion and hypocrisy. He’d made a fortune on other’s peoples bad teeth, the
steadily shrinking swimsuit and politics. Now he was dead…or had killed somebody or something.
The green and purple limo pulled to a stop outside the Dinsmore Mansion and the pair climbed out.
“You would think that the door would have worked a little longer on such a precision vehicle,” Abdul grunted as
he lowered Dayve to the ground from the sunroof. The ambled to the massive oak like substitute doors, strutted
into the marble-esque covered foyer and cha-cha’ed their way into the living room.
The two detectives faced all the suspects, as crooked a bunch of dentists, mechanics, college coaches and record
company executives as you’d ever laid eyes on. They cast an aura so crooked that Abdul and Dayve could see
the painting on the wall behind them.
There JuJubee Whitcome, Dinsmore’s personal dentist and partner in toothpicks for more than twenty five days.
Laurel Filch, two time NCAA Competitive Eating coach of the decade in a sport only three years old and Dinsmore’
s half brother and nephew.
The lovely and talented Utsei Boosti Winters, Dinsmore’s wet nurse and confidant. The drinks only had to get
within a foot of her face for her to be able to suck them back. Abdul admired her melons, and thumped one
before asking how much.
“Watermelons just came in season, but I can get you deal.” She whispered with the green fruit still in the crux of
her arm.
Dayve whistled at Stu Barnes, the simplest name in the room.
“There has been,” Abdul paused for dramatic effect but forgot he had paid his drama bill, “…a murder! “ He
stabbed a finger skyward, um, towards the ceiling and there held fast by a thousand toothpicks was Dinsmore. He
was posed kind of like a cherub.
“How’d you find the body so fast?” Dayve intoned to him, under her breath.
“What body?” Abdul asked, the brim of his fedora tilting back like drunken sailor on his twenty ninth shot. Well, for
a new sailor maybe his fifteenth, but for experienced sailor with a slore in every port and a liver scarred by the
ravages of rot gut, it would have been closer to thirty.
“And you did it! “ Davye exhaled, her arm rising to point at the guilty party. At that instant the room went light!
Dinsmore had loved testing the suntan lotion but hated going outside, so he’d had powerful lights installed in the
ceiling. Abdul imagined he saw Ronald McDonald and the Burger King making out. Then the room went black.
As the funk music played and the afrosheen tinged smoke pour forth from hidden vents, the lights went out
plunging the room into darkness. A gun fired. Then a bow and arrow twanged, a blow dart blew, Ms. Winters
swallowed, a small cannon went off and two swords clanged.
Abdul had dove to cover Dayve the instant he’d sensed danger, but she been holding him off since they’d met in
the street. When the lights went out, she let herself be taken.
“Did you really have to?” she exuded at his face hovering above hers in the darkness.
“To save you, of course,” the steeliness in his deep dark eyes however translated into ‘I was trying fall down and
you got in the way.”
“So the full body pat down, massage and body rub you just gave me was an accident? And can I have my
panties back?”
Abdul sheepishly uncovered her, the warm wool receding to leave her there on the cool marble-ish floor as they
surveyed the room. All of them were dead. Jujubee had been shot, Stu arrowed, Laurel had been blow darted,
and Utsei had, er…choked. Yeah, choked. But they all looked so peaceful.
So in the tradition of all the great detectives of history and literature, the pair deftly rifled the pockets and wallets
of the suspects, making off with a watch and necklace as well, anonymously call the police and said it was them,
pined a note on Stu Barnes that said ‘I did it’ and ran.
A few minutes later Abdul came back and stole a few bottles of liquor. The cops arrived. Somebody brought a keg.
But that’s a whole other story.
“Funny place to put a deep blue China Sea,” he quipped to nobody and dogpaddled back to the shore. He
staggered back onto the curb, got rid of the dogs before the ASPCA got it’s hooks into him for using them as a
paddles, and sidled back into Little George’s Gunshop and DayCare (Two for one Tuesdays).
At the bar he ordered a gin and milk, and tried to figure out who was trying to kill him. If they were willing to pay
to have a sea moved all the way from China, they might even have enough left over to pay for a bullet or two.
Bullets, the bartender, slid over and rested a forearm on the bar. Abdul asked him to move it, so Bullets, the
bartender, put the forearm back in the freezer until the dinner rush.
“So, what’s eating you pal?” the barkeep asked.
“These little bugs, got them from swimming in deep blue China seas, but then that ain’t what’s bothering me.”
Just then bullets, the small metal flying projectiles, tore through the front window fragments and smashed into the
bar. Both men looked at their wrists. Bullets, the bartender, looked at his because he had a watch on, and Abdul,
the non-bartender, because he had a itch there.
“The 9:14 from the Westside Bowlers League,” the bartender said out of the side of his mouth, the front being
closed for repairs.
Abdul knew something was wrong in an instant. Well in reality, it was more like three instants and a suddenly.
Dinsmore!
Abdul sprang from the bar, the spring his stool had shifted and he just poked him in the tender look outties.
Bullets, the small metal thingees that made mucho big hurt, followed him out like a bar bill, and vice versa.
He skirted the deep China Sea and headed up the sunny side of the street, the unsunny side of the street looking
especially unsunny in the dark of the night. The suddenly, again, there she was, in front of him. She stood defiant
and looking for all the world like a great big cone of ice cream: cool, to the point, something you just knew you
would lick down to nothing if you put your tongue into it. Dayve.
“So, we meet yet again,” she sighed.
“Yett is here? The fool owes me five bucks.” Abdul looked about frantically.
She sauntered over to a waiting Hyundai limo, ushering him into the back door without even giving him a pat
down. His ticket was balcony, but she let him sit in the middle seats with her.
“We might be working the same case, Sharpie” she cooed into his ear.
“Dinsmore!” he shouted.
Philbuso Kensington Maureen Chen Che Dinsmore. Billionaire. A true visionary who years ago had cornered the
market on toothpicks, suntan lotion and hypocrisy. He’d made a fortune on other’s peoples bad teeth, the
steadily shrinking swimsuit and politics. Now he was dead…or had killed somebody or something.
The green and purple limo pulled to a stop outside the Dinsmore Mansion and the pair climbed out.
“You would think that the door would have worked a little longer on such a precision vehicle,” Abdul grunted as
he lowered Dayve to the ground from the sunroof. The ambled to the massive oak like substitute doors, strutted
into the marble-esque covered foyer and cha-cha’ed their way into the living room.
The two detectives faced all the suspects, as crooked a bunch of dentists, mechanics, college coaches and record
company executives as you’d ever laid eyes on. They cast an aura so crooked that Abdul and Dayve could see
the painting on the wall behind them.
There JuJubee Whitcome, Dinsmore’s personal dentist and partner in toothpicks for more than twenty five days.
Laurel Filch, two time NCAA Competitive Eating coach of the decade in a sport only three years old and Dinsmore’
s half brother and nephew.
The lovely and talented Utsei Boosti Winters, Dinsmore’s wet nurse and confidant. The drinks only had to get
within a foot of her face for her to be able to suck them back. Abdul admired her melons, and thumped one
before asking how much.
“Watermelons just came in season, but I can get you deal.” She whispered with the green fruit still in the crux of
her arm.
Dayve whistled at Stu Barnes, the simplest name in the room.
“There has been,” Abdul paused for dramatic effect but forgot he had paid his drama bill, “…a murder! “ He
stabbed a finger skyward, um, towards the ceiling and there held fast by a thousand toothpicks was Dinsmore. He
was posed kind of like a cherub.
“How’d you find the body so fast?” Dayve intoned to him, under her breath.
“What body?” Abdul asked, the brim of his fedora tilting back like drunken sailor on his twenty ninth shot. Well, for
a new sailor maybe his fifteenth, but for experienced sailor with a slore in every port and a liver scarred by the
ravages of rot gut, it would have been closer to thirty.
“And you did it! “ Davye exhaled, her arm rising to point at the guilty party. At that instant the room went light!
Dinsmore had loved testing the suntan lotion but hated going outside, so he’d had powerful lights installed in the
ceiling. Abdul imagined he saw Ronald McDonald and the Burger King making out. Then the room went black.
As the funk music played and the afrosheen tinged smoke pour forth from hidden vents, the lights went out
plunging the room into darkness. A gun fired. Then a bow and arrow twanged, a blow dart blew, Ms. Winters
swallowed, a small cannon went off and two swords clanged.
Abdul had dove to cover Dayve the instant he’d sensed danger, but she been holding him off since they’d met in
the street. When the lights went out, she let herself be taken.
“Did you really have to?” she exuded at his face hovering above hers in the darkness.
“To save you, of course,” the steeliness in his deep dark eyes however translated into ‘I was trying fall down and
you got in the way.”
“So the full body pat down, massage and body rub you just gave me was an accident? And can I have my
panties back?”
Abdul sheepishly uncovered her, the warm wool receding to leave her there on the cool marble-ish floor as they
surveyed the room. All of them were dead. Jujubee had been shot, Stu arrowed, Laurel had been blow darted,
and Utsei had, er…choked. Yeah, choked. But they all looked so peaceful.
So in the tradition of all the great detectives of history and literature, the pair deftly rifled the pockets and wallets
of the suspects, making off with a watch and necklace as well, anonymously call the police and said it was them,
pined a note on Stu Barnes that said ‘I did it’ and ran.
A few minutes later Abdul came back and stole a few bottles of liquor. The cops arrived. Somebody brought a keg.
But that’s a whole other story.
